Mortar and Stone
by Beckthter
Summary: Sherlock continues to push at Joan, intent on the idea that life with him will only cause her ruin; but when she finally finds someone who may be more than just a diversion, Sherlock finds himself dealing with jealousy beyond his control, and the realization that he may have pushed her once too far.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

"_I consider you to be… exceptional; so I make an exceptional effort to accommodate you."_

The words echoed around her head; bouncing against the wall that stood between profession and passion, again and again, until cracks began to form.

Whenever he reached out it did this; tried to chip away at what she had so carefully been holding together.

But then, he would do something;

"_You must accept, for as long as you choose to be in my life, there will be the occasional fallout from my behaviour."_

Say something;

"_That must be part of our understanding."_

"_No one can accept something like that forever."_

And just like that;

"_To thine own self, Watson."_

The echoes turned to mortar and stone.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

"I'm going out Sherlock." Watson clicked down the stairs in black heels and a blue silk dress which at once both clung and flowed over her lithe form. She picked up her jacket, hovering by the coat rack.

Sherlock sat by the fire, tome in hand, "Is it a potential beau?" He pretended to read, not looking up.

She gave him that '_I'm trying to tolerate you right now' _look. "Yes, Sherlock, it is a date."

"Of course, you wouldn't be wearing _Issey Miyake_ if it weren't, would you? You only wear that scent on those particular occasions you are hoping to 'get lucky', to use the vernacular," he couldn't help raising his eyes to see her reaction. "Well then, you have my blessing Watson. Go, be free, expend all that sexual tension. I think you might need it."

"I wasn't asking for permission."

"You have it nonetheless. I'm sure I don't need to lecture you on protection." He picked up his book once again.

She flared her nostrils and grabbed her handbag. "You know, despite what you may believe, Sherlock, I do not need your blessing before every date."

"Really? I was of the impression you were looking for an 'out'."

"That is ridiculous." She didn't look at him as she threw it over one shoulder, flicking her hair over the strap.

"Well then, why aren't you leaving?"

"Already gone." She said, slamming the door behind her. She failed to notice Holmes' clenched fists as her heels clacked down the front steps and out into the New York night.

He knew what this was: punishment. Earlier in the day he had made the mistake of acknowledging a café girl's seductive smile. He should have known by now that Watson picked up on things that most people would not.

"Do you know her?" She had asked, as they left the café, coffees in hand.

"In the biblical sense? Yes. We met on Thursday."

"_Last week_? But we were working all day, where did you find-"

"You went out to get takeaway."

She stopped walking. "How is that even possible? I was gone for _10 minutes_."

"Ample time Watson, when you know what you want and how to get it. App technology is quite remarkable."

She scoffed, but continued walking again. "You know, there is such a thing as replacing one addiction for another, Sherlock."

This time, it was Sherlock who stopped. "Don't worry Joan," he said acerbically, "if I ever find my life spiralling out of control once more, I'm sure you'll be the first to notice." He left her standing there and walked, to her great dismay, back into the coffee shop.

She shouldn't have said it, she knew. It was a low blow, but it got her every time; just how _casual_ he could be about it. As if it never mattered, as if the thought of it ever being a meaningful act was alien to him.

"Joan, are you with me?" Tom tilted his head, his kind blue eyes ever-inquiring.

"Oh, sorry, thinking about work." She tried to shake Sherlock out of her mind. This was _her_ night, in the company of the most charming, genuine man she had met for a very long time. She wouldn't let the other, emotionally distant, man in her life ruin it.

"So when am I going to meet the big boss?" He asked.

"Partner," She corrected.

"My mistake," He grinned. "Will I ever get to meet the amazing Sherlock Holmes? I'd like to see how he ticks."

Dr Tom Berkley was a Psych professor at NYU, and Cecelia's last-ditch attempt at a set-up for Joan. All the others had never worked out. CC said Joan never gave them a chance, and maybe she was right, but Joan had told her 'no more' in no uncertain terms. That was until CC had begged - sworn black and blue - that this man was _the one_ she had been looking for.

"You would be _perfect_ for each other," CC claimed.

"Hmmm, where have I heard that before?"

"Ok, ok, I _may_ have been wrong in the past, but this time I'm not! Just give me one more chance; this time I promise."

Joan had acquiesced, although she had needed convincing all over again when CC said Tom was recently divorced. CC had assured her that they had been separated for years, and the ex was a real piece-of-work.

However, any preconceptions of white-haired, tweed-jacketed professors were forever wiped from her mind when she first saw the bright-eyed Tom. _Bingo CC, _she thought.

"I'm sure you will meet him soon enough." Joan told him. She was, in all honesty, hoping the day would never come. Sherlock was a little like an over-protective father when it came to meeting boyfriends; it was something not to be done lightly.

They finished their wine and, after Tom paid the bill, made their way out onto the street.

He handed the valet his ticket, "May I take you home?" He asked, looking at her with the same unrestrained hope as he always did, it was as startling as it was endearing.

Something in that look warmed her. "That would be lovely, thank you." She answered.

* * *

_Am I really doing this?_

The thought nagged at her, all the way from the restaurant to the front steps of the Brownstone, where she hesitated.

_What about Sherlock? _ The voice in her head said.

"Tom…"

_What about him?_ She countered. He was her housemate and associate, nothing more. It was her choice who she brought home with her. And yet… she didn't want a confrontation with Sherlock tonight.

Tom seemed to anticipate her thoughts. "It's ok, Joan. You've been working hard this week. I'll let you rest." Joan dropped her shoulders, letting go of the tension she didn't realise she'd been holding. He traced a hand lightly over her collarbone, her shoulder, and down her arm, "But next time, I can't promise you any." Goosebumps sprung up where he had touched her. "Good night, Joan." With a hand still resting on her arm, he leaned in, watching for any hesitation. Joan lifted her chin towards him, and he bent, moving his hand up to cradle her jaw-.

The door opened. "Hello there," Sherlock said with casual surprise. "I do apologise; I was just popping out for some fresh air." He extended his hand to Tom, "Sherlock Holmes."

"Tom Berkley," he said, holding out his own hand to shake, glancing at Joan.

"Won't you come in?" Sherlock gestured inside.

"Tom was just leaving," Joan said.

"Yes, I was just saying good night to Joan, but thank you." Tom squeezed Joan's hand and turned to leave.

"Nonsense, we'd love to have you. Wouldn't we _Joan_?"

She stared at Sherlock blankly for a moment. _What had gotten into him?_ "Ah, of course."

"Wonderful, do come in." Sherlock held the door open as a hesitant Tom and a wary Joan stepped through the door and into the lounge room.

"Can I get you some tea?" Sherlock asked Tom.

"No, thank you. I just had coffee." Tom answered.

"Joan?"

"No."

"Well then, won't you take a seat?" Sherlock pointed toward the couch.

Tom sat, crossing one ankle over his knee, but Joan stayed standing for a moment. She did not like this one bit. He had that look on his face, like a lion who had just cornered an unsuspecting wildebeest.

Her troubling thought was interrupted when she noticed a large, gaping hole in the plaster next to the bookshelf.

"What happened there?"

"Sparring accident. Seems I got a little too vigorous for my punching bag." _Seems this was affecting me more than I wanted to admit._

Joan frowned. He was agitated, something was wrong.

She turned to Tom, "I'm actually really tired. Would you mind if I just went to bed?"

"Of course not," Tom stood, but Sherlock waved him down.

"No, no, Tom, don't feel you have to leave on Watson's account. Stay and have a chat won't you?"

Joan glared at Sherlock. Sherlock smiled innocuously.

Tom looked back from one to the other and stood up. "I think I should leave…"

"We must do this again sometime." Sherlock said, waving, as Joan walked Tom outside.

When the door closed she held out her hands in a helpless gesture. "I'm sorry Tom, it's just… Sherlock…"

"At least I know _I _wasn't the reason you didn't want us to meet." He gave a brief smile with the corner of his mouth. Putting his hands around her shoulders, he looked down, concern in his eyes. "Will you be ok? I mean, with him?"

"I can handle Sherlock."

"It's just, he seems a little… 'off'."

Joan couldn't stop the laugh that came bubbling out. Tom looked suitably confused.

"When comparing Sherlock to the rest of the world, 'off' is an understatement."

Joan walked inside and closed the door, steeling herself for a moment before facing Sherlock again.

* * *

"What is wrong with you?" She asked when she found him in standing the kitchen pouring two cups of tea.

"What was the prognosis then?" He asked, turning, "Sociopath? Borderline Personality? I've always been of the impression that psychology is the layman's psychiatry, but whatever floats your boat."

"How did you…"

"Oh come now Watson, I could practically _see_ him ticking the diagnoses off in his head when he first laid eyes on me." Truth was, he knew Watson had been seeing _Doctor_ Tom Berkley for a short time. He _may_ have noted down his number plate the last time the good Doctor picked Watson up in his wanky Prius hybrid; and he _may _have asked Detective Bell to look it up for him.

Watson let out a sound of exasperation and turned, stomping up the stairs. "Yes good idea, bed," he called up after her, "All that eye-rolling must be giving you a headache."

"Good _night_ Sherlock," she said, closing the bedroom door behind her, certain now that the mortar and stone would never crack again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

As the next morning dawned, Joan awoke to find that all the anger had seeped out of her. She wanted to make amends. Yes, Holmes had been an ass, but it was not entirely his fault. She knew she pushed his buttons. It was a trait they both shared. Sometimes she did it on purpose, especially when he had been particularly cold toward her. It gave her some strange satisfaction; better he lash out at her than nothing.

He had been on edge in the last few weeks, since they had caught that slimy serial killer. She hadn't seen him like this since her first days as his sober companion. They had grown closer, she had gained his trust, she was a sure part of his life and work now. He had called her _exceptional_. But something changed after that. The very next day he began to behave as none of it had ever happened.

She wanted her Sherlock back.

The door opened and in walked the man himself, carrying a breakfast tray. He bent, placing it on the bed next to her, and stood with a satisfied look on his face.

"What's this?" She asked.

"Croissants, honey," he said them so close together that for a moment she thought he had called _her_ honey, but then she saw him pointing to each item on the tray. She wondered if he'd done it on purpose, "and coffee." He saw the enquiring look on her face, "I wanted to make amends."

_Well we can add psychic to your list of talents_, she thought, breathing a sigh of relief. This wouldn't be difficult after all. Sherlock had surprised her once again.

Yesterday he had pushed her too far, he knew, and he had to make it right before she decided today was the day for departure. After all, she had said she would leave him if he didn't change: _"No one can accept something like that forever." _To Sherlock, she may as well have left him there and then. Why delay the inevitable? He knew he couldn't change. He was as inadequate a man now as he ever would be. A brilliant partner, yes; but man? No. So, he had shut down, prepared himself for the fallout. After years of isolating himself, it was like putting on a favourite old coat, albeit one that now felt a little too tight.

Joan sat up, crossing her legs, and reached for a croissant, offering him the other. He took it from her and sat in the chair by the window. She noticed his eyes: dark, red-rimmed, with that wide, lost look he had for her every now and then. _You could break me_, it said. She was sure Sherlock wasn't aware that he did it, and she was glad. It gave her a glimpse that this man was not impenetrable after all.

"Have you slept?" She asked as she cut through the crisp pastry into the steaming centre.

A quick shake of his head. "I realise my behaviour toward you recently has been abhorrent, and I'm sorry." Something in him shouted _stop_ even as he said it, but he _needed_ to, because he _needed_ her.

It had gnawed at him all night. Sherlock was a man who enjoyed being in control; of knowing all the ins and outs of every situation. But Joan had him in circles; never knowing which way was up. At first he had been grateful when he found out she had met someone. _This is good_, he told himself as she went out to meet the good doctor. Another man meant she would not be wasting time investing herself into him and their relationship, whatever that was. Sherlock had promised he would never allow any harm to come to her, and allowing her to try to build a life with him would only end up breaking that promise.

But that night he had found himself pacing around the brownstone, and to his utter disgust he felt something he had not felt in a very long time: jealousy. As his old go-to in situations like these was now out of the question, he tried to take his frustration out in other pursuits; hence the café girl, and the punching bag.

"I shouldn't have said what I did yesterday about your addiction. It's my fault, too."

"It's not," he said matter-of-factly as he stared out the window. "Anyway," he suddenly stood to his feet, "eat up. We have an appointment with the Mayor."

Joan stopped, her croissant halfway to her mouth, "The Mayor?"

"Yes, no idea what he'd need us for, but hopefully it's juicy."

They walked into the waiting room of the Mayor's office; all white walls and wooden floors. The receptionist picked up the phone when they introduced themselves and a moment later a tall, suited brunette walked through the door.

"Thank you for coming in," she held out her hand to each of them. "I'm Annabelle Rowntree, Mayor Goodwin's PA. Before you speak to the Mayor I just need you to sign these confidentiality agreements." They took a clipboard and pen each, "Standard procedure, I assure you. They state that any information acquired from this meeting may not be passed on to any member of the public."

Sherlock wagged his eyebrows at Watson, "Told you it'd be juicy."

Ms Rowntree led them into the Mayor's office, "Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson, Sir."

The Mayor stood, walked around from behind his huge teak desk, and shook each of their hands. He flashed Joan a sparkling smile that she immediately mistrusted, "Thank you for coming on such short notice." He gestured towards the leather chairs facing each other in the centre of the room.

"How can we be of assistance?" Sherlock asked as he and Watson sat down.

The Mayor looked at Ms Rowntree, and did not speak until she had shut the door. He ran a hand nervously through his silver-streaked, perfectly coiffed hair, took a yellow envelope out of his desk drawer and handed it to Sherlock.

"I want you to find the man who took these." He said, handing it to them as he sat down/

Sherlock took a handful of photos out and examined them, "Yes, I imagine you would…" He handed them to Joan.

They clearly showed the Mayor sitting on a bed, sans clothes; a lingerie-clad blonde on her knees before him. The photos had that quality about them often seen with long-zoom lenses. To a paparazzo, it was the Holy Grail of all shots.

"I'm sure I don't need to remind you about the agreements you have signed. This does not leave my office."

"Of course," Sherlock answered.

"These came with a note," The mayor held out a piece of paper -which Joan went to take- but handed it to Sherlock instead.

Printed on it was a message:

_If you don't want these photos going public,_

_deliver $10,000 to 6/171 Liberty Avenue, Jamaica_

_by 5pm ._

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, "While we are flattered that you have sought out our services," he stood, "we unfortunately must decline. You are looking for a private investigator, one that specialises in avenging jilted lovers." He held the envelope and note back out to the Mayor, "We are consulting detectives for the NYPD, not your average Private Dicks."

Joan bit her lip to stop from smiling. _Stop being so immature._

The Mayor looked impatient, "Which is precisely why I asked you. This is a very sensitive matter, and could ruin my career. I can't just ask any PI from the phonebook, I'm sure you'd agree."

"With all due respect Mayor Goodwin, _we -_" he gestured to himself and Joan, "do not make a habit of rescuing men who have been caught in _flagrante delicto_. However, I do know a man who can give you precisely what you need." He pulled out a business card from his wallet, "I highly recommend him. Watson?" He turned and walked out, Joan in tow.

"You look displeased," he said to Joan later on the subway.

"I know you think yourself above all normal orders of hierarchy, and I know he is a slimeball, but did you have to give him such a dressing down? He _is_ the Mayor. I don't think it's good practise to make enemies in high places."

"I have no sympathy for men who want all the benefits of a family without the limitations. It's either/or Watson. The Mayor wanted both, he got caught. I think it's fair to say he got what was coming to him."

* * *

"What are you doing tonight?" Joan asked as they finished lunch. It had taken her twenty minutes to convince him to eat something.

"Cataloguing my collection of North American bird calls, and then probably completing monograph number two hundred and eighteen. Have you even _attempted _to read them yet?"

"Up to thirty five." She smiled at him with satisfaction and began clearing their plates.

"Well you have a lot of catching up to do. Perhaps you can do that tonight."

She paused, "I'm watching a movie with a friend."

"The Good Doctor?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"Thank you for the invitation, but if it's all the same I think I'll leave you to it," he turned on his heel, walking out of the kitchen.

Joan rolled her eyes after him, immediately feeling guilty.

* * *

The barrel of the gun was aimed directly at his forehead. The gunman was concentrating all his efforts on keeping it still.

"Please, _please_, I'll give them to you. Just don't shoot," the man in the leather jacket held up his hands, his face white and clammy as he inched closer to his desk. The gunman followed closely as the man reached over, knocking over his camera in his haste. He righted it and grabbed a large white envelope.

"Are there any other copies?" The gunman growled.

"No, I swear. The USB is in there too. That's all there is."

"Good," the gunman said.

The man's face relaxed for a moment before he pulled the trigger.

* * *

That night, after Tom had cooked a delicious meal (_because, _of course_ he's a great cook, too_), he and Joan sat down to watch a movie. The thought of sitting in such close proximity to Tom for two hours sent tingles over Joan's skin. Things had been so tense lately with Sherlock that she was glad for some respite, and that respite could come in no better form than Tom Berkley. He was the polar opposite of the eccentric detective. With Sherlock there was always a dark streak that lay in wait, and you were never sure of what he was about to do. Tom was warm, familiar, dependable. He had a gentle joy about him that drew her in, made her want to bask in it, absorb it. As much as she was loath to admit it, maybe Sherlock was right; a night with Tom was just what she needed.

Tom held up a DVD in each hand, "Art-house/comedy, or crime/drama?

"Crime/drama? Is that supposed to be funny?" Joan raised an eyebrow at him.

"I thought you could give me a running commentary…" At her look he held up his hands in playful surrender, "Art-house/comedy it is then." He said, taking out the DVD and putting it into the player.

"Are there no straight genre movies anymore?" Joan asked as Tom sat beside her. Her mobile beeped. "Sorry I'll put it on silent."

With the intention of ignoring it, she glanced at the message on the screen:

_Mayor's photographer dead._

_8__th__ and 52__nd_

_C U Soon_

"Tom… I have to go. There's been a murder."

"Are you sure? I mean, the man isn't getting any deader."

"Trust me, I would much rather stay, but Sherlock's there already... I'm sorry," she pouted slightly. "I know that's kind of a thing with me lately."

"It's ok, you go and save the city," he said, placing a slow kiss on her lips that she wished didn't have to end.

"Tomorrow night?" Joan asked.

"Can't, AMHF fundraising ball, remember?"

"Oh Tom, I completely forgot. I'll be there."

"Invite your partner too, perhaps he can use that brilliant mind of his to raise us some money."

* * *

Joan ducked under the police tape, following the stream of policemen and forensic workers up to the first landing and into the dead man's apartment.

She could see the puddle of blood before she even got to the doorway.

No matter how many times Joan saw a dead body, every murder scene was a shock to her system. She had made it her calling to save lives, and with every case all she could think of was what potential had been lost with each life taken.

"Oh good, you're here." Sherlock stepped gingerly around the body and joined her in the hallway. "Hope I didn't interrupt anything."

She ignored him and walked inside. The deceased lay sprawled face-down, a confetti of torn up photos scattered about him like a festive border.

Sherlock followed. "Gunshot to the head: obvious cause of death. Neighbour saw the blood under the doorway and called the police. Estimated time of death is 1900 hours."

"This is the guy who bribed the Mayor?" Asked Joan.

"It would appear so. Note the incriminating photos scattered around the body."

Detective Bell approached them. "We'll set up interviews tomorrow morning."

"I'm assuming that the great Mayor Goodwin will be one of them?" Sherlock asked.

"Seeing as he is currently the only lead we have: yes."

But Sherlock wasn't listening. Instead, he was bent down by the desk at a strange angle, using his hand to measure some imaginary line between him and the door.

"I wouldn't be so sure Detective," he said, standing. He took a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket, slipping them on, "Our photographer was probably more than a little paranoid; It's not every day someone catches the Mayor in the act." He picked up a camera, plugging it into the nearby laptop connection, and hit play. "So it makes sense that he wanted a little insurance, should anything happen." He watched for a moment before holding the screen out to Bell and Watson.

And there a man stood, gun raised to the photographer's head. The video had only captured the gunman from the neck down, but as the gun went off, and Joan jumped, a large logo could be seen clearly on his right shoulder: _Air Mechanics NY_.

"I think it's safe to say we have another lead, Detective."


	3. Chapter 3

_A note from Rebecca:_

_Firstly, I want to thank you guys so much for your lovely reviews! They really keep me going. :) Secondly, I wanted to let you know that the theme song I've chosen to sum up Sherlock and Watson's relationship is "Distance" by Christina Perri. Have a listen to the lyrics and tell me what you think! Now, over to our detectives…_

* * *

**Chapter 3**

"We called your boss and he gave us the names of two men that matched the height and build of our gunman: Tony Naples and Brian Mallory."

Detective Bell was sitting in the interrogation room, Gregson stood leaning against the corner. A balding middle-aged man, sat across from them, his stomach straining against the buttons of his collared shirt.

"The manager there said Naples was out on two after-hour repair jobs. Car logs show they were back-to-back."

"So that leaves you, Mr Mallory," Gregson stood. "We searched your house this morning while you were in custody, and guess what we found?"

Mallory stared up at him, dumbfounded. Gregson nodded at Bell, who pulled out a hand-gun wrapped in plastic and placed it on the table, "Ballistics say it's the same one used last night to kill Mr Jack Hapston, the photographer."

Mallory's eyes widened. "W-what are you talking about?"

"So, you'd better start talking Mr Mallory;" Gregson leant over him, "You're gonna tell us what your connection to the photographer is, and why you killed him."

Mallory held his hands up, "Woah woah. I ain't killed nobody. Me and My buddy Tony use that gun to go shootin' targets together. He came over last night, askin' for the gun, sayin' he had some time to kill. I assumed he was just gonna do some target practise.

"He's not the killer," Joan said, as she and Sherlock watched from behind the two-way mirror. "The signs are all wrong: the only reaction he had when they brought that gun out was confusion. He's not lying."

"Agreed." Sherlock said. He enjoyed watching her make deductions, using what he had taught her. "They found two sets of fingerprints on that gun. His story would be plausible, if it weren't for the pesky issue of Tony Naples' alibi."

Joan frowned, thinking. "What if it didn't check out? Has anyone interviewed his clients from last night?"

"No, but I can see we're about to."

Joan and Sherlock pulled up outside a large brick house on Bow Street, Forest Hills. The street was lined with large, shady trees, full of large old houses that Joan would love to live in one day. Not that she wasn't happy where she was now; she loved the hustle and bustle of New York City, and strangely enough, she and her reclusive housemate had found a natural rhythm together. She just couldn't see herself living there forever. She wanted to have a family one day, no matter how far off that dream was becoming with each birthday that passed leaving her single and one year older.

"Before I forget," said Joan as they got out of the car, "Tom's hosting a fundraising ball tonight for the American Mental Health Foundation and he was wondering if you'd like to come. I think he thought you'd make an interesting table guest, you know, drum up some funds for the foundation."

Sherlock pursed his lips, pretending to give it some thought, "Please tell the Good Doctor that, while I am extremely flattered to be whored out for a good cause, I will be unavailable. I expect this case will be occupying most of our free-time so I want to get a head start and, in any case, I'm not sure being around all that free-flowing champagne would be good for my sobriety. You will have to do the cash-squeezing without me."

Joan didn't answer as Sherlock knocked on the white-wooden door.

A well-dressed woman in her fifties opened it, "Can I help you?" She asked.

"Good afternoon, Ms Trent," Sherlock said, "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Joan Watson. We are consulting detectives with the NYPD and were wondering if we could ask you a few questions about Tony Naples, the man who came to fix your air-conditioning yesterday evening."

"What is this about?"

"Unfortunately at this stage we can't disclose that information, we just wanted to know what time he arrived, how long he stayed, and when he departed."

"Um, well he probably came at about ten past six, and was here for about half an hour."

"So he left at about six forty?" Joan asked.

"Yes that sounds about right."

Sherlock held up a photo. "And this was the man?"

"Yes, that's him for sure."

"Thank you, that's all the questions we have for now."

The second client was a little more wary.

"You ain't no cops?" He said, peering out from his chain-locked apartment door.

"No Sir, but we are assisting them on a case at the moment." Joan said.

"So I don't gotta talk to you then."

The man went to close the door, but Sherlock planted a palm on it, forcing it open.

"Would you feel more comfortable if we sent Detective Bell around instead?"

The man considered this a moment, unhooked the chain, and opened the door.

"What do you wanna know?"

* * *

"So if Naples didn't arrive here until about seven thirty, that means he lied in his log-book," Joan said as they made their way back to the car, "and there's an hour unaccounted for."

"Factoring in transit time, I'd say that leaves about twenty minutes. Plenty of time to kill Hapston and make it here by seven thirty." Sherlock picked up his phone to dial Gregson, placing him on speaker.

"Good afternoon, Captain."

"Sherlock, I'm glad you called. We were able to get access to Hapston's voicemails. There's one from a woman telling him where to be the night the photos of the Mayor were taken. I'll send it to you."

"Have you been able to get the Mayor in yet?" Sherlock asked.

Gregson cleared his throat, "We're working on it."

"What about the woman he was with?"

"Yes, we had thought of that. Not surprisingly, the Mayor hasn't been forthcoming. As I said, we're working on it."

"Well, in the meantime, we have strong reason to suspect Naples was lying about his alibi."

"Funny that, the man's refusing to come in for questioning."

When Sherlock explained what they had just discovered, Gregson wasted no time. "I'll have a warrant within the hour. Naples' place is 6/171 Liberty Avenue, Jamaica. Detective Bell will meet you there."

"That's the same address in the Mayor's blackmail note." Joan said.

Sherlock was surprised he hadn't immediately remembered. He had allowed himself to become distracted over the last week. It had to stop.

"The plot thickens." He said.

"Listen," Gregson said slowly, seriously, "If this murder turns out having anything to do with the Mayor, I want you to tread lightly. You don't want to know how much shit we will have to wade through before we even think about a conviction. So if you're sure, it'd better be iron clad."

* * *

True to his word, an hour later they were standing with Detective Bell outside an old weatherboard house in the Jamaica district. Tin cans and plastic bags littered the overgrown front yard. A small child, wearing only a singlet and underwear ran out onto the front step, and spotting them, sprinted back into the house.

"Tony Naples?" Detective Bell called, thumping on the door. "This is the police."

A fat, balding man answered the door.

"Yeah?" He said, squinting in the sunlight, with a voice like sandpaper.

"My name's Detective Bell. These," he said, gesturing behind him, "are Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson, Police Consultants."

"And I'm the King of England," Naples crossed his arms, "what's it got to do with me?"

"We have a warrant to search your house." Detective Bell handed it to Naples, nodding to the police waiting on the street. "Your log-book shows you were out on back to back repair jobs last night, is that right?"

"That's right." He answered, as police began to file into his house. "What the hell's this about?"

"Well, Mr Holmes and Ms Watson here made a visit to your clients earlier, it turns out…"

As Bell talked, Sherlock bent slightly in toward Watson, "Do you remember the gunman's hands in the video?" He asked in a low voice.

Joan nodded, "They were shaking… but I didn't think anything of it."

"Not uncommon in an adrenaline-filled shooter, of course, but look-" He pointed his chin towards Naples, who was reading the warrant, the paper fluttering in his hands like a nervous butterfly.

"Hand tremor…" Joan said, "Alcohol withdrawal?"

"I'd say that's a fair deduction. I've seen my fair share."

Naples was giving Bell a hard time. "Well you can suggest that, Detective, but _I'm_ suggestin' that my last client was not in the best state of mind to be rememberin' exactly when I was or wasn't there."

"Mr Naples," Sherlock interrupted, "How long has it been since you've had a drink?"

Naples narrowed his eyes at the strange British man, "Excuse me?"

"It's just that we noticed the tremor in your hands, something you share quite uniquely with our gunman. It could be due to Parkinson's but, unlike the disease, your tremor ceases upon resting. So I will rephrase my question: have you ever been treated for alcoholism?"

"Detective," a forensics worker came out around the back of the house, holding a pair of old boots in a plastic bag, "we found these in a trash can out back, there appears to be blood spatter on them."

Detective Bell took the bag and turned to Naples, "and how do you explain this?"

"I was paintin' my nephew's room yesterday, doin' my sister a favour."

"Red?" Joan asked.

"Well that won't take long to verify," Bell said, "why don't you come down to the station with us while we wait for an answer?"

"No way man, I know my rights, you got nothin' on me."

Bell's lips formed a thin line, "Fine, but when we haul your sorry ass in, you're gonna need a good lawyer." He walked back to a police officer waiting on the street. "Watch him, and make sure he doesn't go anywhere."

* * *

Joan stepped back and examined herself in the mirror. It still fit perfectly, _thank God_.

The ball-gown she was wearing had hung, unworn, for three years in her closet_. Just goes to show the gaping void that is my social life_. She couldn't bring herself to give it away, and she was glad now that she hadn't. It was strapless, metallic silver with a mauve belt showing off her petite waist. Vines detailed the full skirt with a dark splash of emerald surrounding the hem. She loved it, especially the skirt's hidden pockets. She had matched the dress with silver and emerald drop earrings from Granny, her Dad's mother.

Just as she was placing the last bobby pin in her half-twist, she heard her phone ringing from her bag in the hallway. She rushed downstairs to grab it.

It was Tom. "Hey Honey," He said. Joan smiled to herself, he hadn't called her that before. "The car will be around to pick you guys up in about 20 minutes. Is that enough time?"

"Oh, Sherlock couldn't make it tonight; he's busy with the investi… gation…" Joan trailed off as Sherlock walked into the room. He was dressed in black suit, vest and bow-tie, gazing at her with a curious look.

"You look wonderful, Watson," he said softly, immediately clearing his throat.

"Joan? Hello? Are you there?"

Joan remembered Tom, "Yes -Tom- Sorry; Sherlock just told me he'll be able to make it after all."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's note: **Here it is finally, the ball! Song inspiration for Joan and Sherlock is "Distance" by Christina Perri, and the song they dance to is "Unchained Melodies" by the Righteous Brothers. Real-life inspiration for Dr Tom Berkley is Tom Hiddleston :)_

* * *

**Chapter 4**

"What made you change your mind?" Joan asked.

She and Sherlock were in the back of the limo that Tom had sent (Sherlock had scoffed when he saw it, muttering something about Tom's commitment to raising money).

"It will be a few hours before the DNA comes back from Naples' boots, so it appears I have some time to kill."

"Whoring yourself out for a good cause?" She asked with a smirk.

"Precisely."

They pulled up to the imposing 69th Regiment Armory, a huge red-brick building, the size of a warehouse. It had been raining, and the lights reflecting off the road and pavement made everything glitter like magic.

As Joan bent to get out, she felt Sherlock's hand gently take her wrist. Startled, she turned and found herself staring directly into his grey/green eyes.

"Your bag?" he said, holding it up with a cocked eyebrow.

"Oh, thanks," she let out a foggy breath and stepped out of the car, her cheeks burning. She pulled her faux-fur shrug around her tighter against the chilled air.

Sherlock was at her side, offering her his arm. "Shall we?" He asked, as they made their way up the red carpet.

A woman stood behind a podium, under the large archway entrance. Flashes were going off somewhere in the room behind her.

"Names?" She asked.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"And your wife?"

Joan laughed. "Partner."

"Oh sorry, I shouldn't have assumed you were married."

"Don't worry about it. Joan Watson."

"Thank you, and you look beautifully happy together, married or not," she smiled, "Have a great night."

"Oh no - we're not -" Joan began.

Sherlock cut her off, "Thank you ever so much." He flashed the woman a rare smile, ushering Joan through the archway.

"What was that about?" Joan frowned up at him.

He shrugged, "Didn't want to disappoint her."

The room led them directly into a flurry of flashing photographers. Obviously for the more famous guests, but they had to face the gauntlet all the same.

Joan hesitated. "I had no idea they would be here, Sherlock."

"Not to worry," he said, taking her by the elbow and guiding her confidently in front of the cameras.

Joan imagined the first few photos were of her confused face as she turned to the man beaming next to her and asked, "Who are you?"

"This is my 'let's all pretend we're having a great time raising money' face" He said, directing it at her, teeth and all.

Joan laughed. She sometimes forgot that Sherlock came from old money and had, in a past life, probably been to more of these philanthropic balls and fundraisers than he could count.

They escaped the photographers and walked through the second archway into the vast, domed main room of the Armory. Fairy light-studded trees stood around the edges, under a canopy of soft floating lengths of silk. Beautifully dressed men and women leant around cocktail tables networking, negotiating and nurturing each other's egos. As they weaved their way through, Joan looked around for Tom. A tray appeared under their noses.

"Champagne?" Asked the waiter.

Sherlock turned to Joan, "Don't refuse on my account."

"Two sparkling waters please." She asked the waiter, giving Sherlock a pointed look.

As the waiter handed them their order they heard: "Joan!"

Tom was calling her name from across the room. He looked radiant, dressed in a slim-fitting black suit and bow tie, his normally wavy ginger-blonde hair slicked back and away from his face. He was clearly in his element tonight, nodding and smiling to people as he made his way towards them. When he got there, he leant in, kissing Joan on the cheek.

"You look absolutely incredible," he whispered into her ear, his warm breath sending shivers over her skin.

He turned to Sherlock, "So glad you could come, Sherlock," he said, shaking his hand. "Are you enjoying yourselves? They say the band's about to start. Come join our table." He gestured to the dining tables on either side of the dance floor.

As they began to move Tom noticed their glasses of water. "What are you drinking? That's not water is it? It's supposed to be a party!"

"Oh no Tom, I don't-" but Tom ignored her, taking two champagnes off a nearby tray and thrusting them into each of their hands.

"I want you to have a great time," he said, as if they were a bit slow on the uptake, and made his way over to their table.

Joan stiffened, but Sherlock put a hand on her back.

"It's fine, Joan." He said quietly.

Something about his voice, his touch; it was so… _intimate_. She shook off the feeling, following after Tom.

Tom pulled out the chair for Joan, and she and Sherlock sat, while Tom stayed standing.

"Everyone, this is Joan and Sherlock; they're consulting detectives with the NYPD." He smiled with raised eyebrows, as if it were the most interesting occupation in the world. "I'm sorry I have to run off again," he pointed toward himself with his thumbs, "hosting," he said to Joan with a smirk.

"Oh, Big Shot? She replied, "I'll see you later."

He hesitated, giving her a longing look. "I really hope we can get some time alone," He leant in, speaking quietly, "it feels such a waste to have something so exquisite and not be able to enjoy it."

He gave her a brief kiss on the lips before rushing off, leaving her breathless and blushing. She glanced at Sherlock, who was watching her while in conversation with Tom's sister. She looked away, embarrassed.

Tom took the stage to generous applause.

"Settle down people, he hasn't done anything yet," Sherlock said out of the corner of his mouth.

After Tom had thanked everyone for coming and announced the silent auction, he re-joined them at their table just as dinner was being served.

During their meal, while Tom had only eyes for her, Sherlock regaled the enraptured group with stories of some of his more sensational cases. This was a side of Sherlock Joan rarely got to see, and she found herself mesmerised along with the others.

"Naturally, as soon as I saw the breadcrumbs I knew who the killer was," Sherlock looked at them all expectantly, but no one answered. "The wife, of course! As I _previously mentioned_, the whole family had a history of gluten intolerance. She was the only one who would not have been affected by the stew, and therefore the only one who would have had time to sneak out and make the phone call…"

Joan had actually felt relief when Sherlock had said no to the invitation. More out of habit than anything else, she avoided parties or functions with Sherlock that might be a trigger to his addiction. She had worried that perhaps it was too soon for him; that he'd be uncomfortable having to mingle with so many people, so it was strange to see him almost rivalling Tom's own easy charisma.

She knew Sherlock could be charming when he wanted to be; her family was a testament to that. "What about your detective?" Her mother would ask, "He's a nice man, Joan, rich _and_ handsome." Whenever she tried to protest her mother would start with: "Isn't he good enough? What's wrong with you? You're too picky, Joan." _This_ coming from a woman who had vetoed basically every man she had ever brought home.

Yes, Sherlock could charm the pants off her mother, and anyone else when the mood took him. Unfortunately, that was a rare occurrence.

"What do you think?" Tom was asking.

_Oh crap_, she hadn't been listening. "Um…"

"I mean, I know your work is important, so you tell me when the best time would be."

_Nope_, still didn't know how to answer. She took her wine, gulping it to buy her some time.

"That's if someone doesn't outbid us, of course, but," he took her hand, looking at her earnestly, "I think it'd be nice for us to get away from the city for a few days."

_Got it_. "Yes, it would be."

"How about at the end of summer? Before the semester starts, I should have some time free."

"That would be lovely, Tom." She realised that meant he was planning on being around for another 3 months, at the least. It was a bit of a surprise to her, but instead of pleasure, Joan felt an inexplicable uneasiness. She glanced at Sherlock.

The band began to play, and the singer's soulful voice sang out the familiar first phrases of _Unchained Melody, _as dancers slowly filtered onto the dance floor. Joan and Tom watch them, and just as she was thinking how nice it would be to dance with him, he turned to her.

"Joan, our President's talking to Dr Kellerman without me. I'm sorry, I have to go make the rounds."

Her heart sank. "Oh… that's ok."

As he ran off, she turned back to the table, disappointed, only to see Sherlock before her, holding out a hand.

"Shall we?"

She looked up at him, "You want me to dance? I didn't even know you _could_ dance."

"Watson, there are still many things about me that would surprise you. The foremost being that I am nothing, if not a gentleman." He bowed, as if to make a point.

She took his hand hesitantly and he led her out onto the dance floor. With one hand on the small of her back, he began to sway along smoothly with the other dancers.

If Tom was warm tingles, Sherlock was an electric shock. As they moved, every part of his body that touched hers sent flames licking through her. From his firm but gentle fingers around her palm, to the stubble that brushed her temple, she felt as if every hair on her body was standing to attention. Never had she been this close; never had he asked her to be.

_What are you doing?_ Sherlock asked himself. He didn't know, but he did know that he could count the freckles that dusted her cheeks, and was finding it hard to tear his gaze away from her crimson painted lips.

Without meaning to, Sherlock began humming softly under his breath. "Ooooh my loooove…. My darling…."

Joan couldn't help laughing. She felt a warm, fuzzy glow; she must have drunk more than she'd thought. _Mustn't let Sherlock know._

He cocked an eyebrow, "Do you find my singing amusing?" He said, punishing her by suddenly pulling her back into a dip. To his great satisfaction, she shrieked.

He brought her back up, breathless with shock and delight, "I've just never heard you sing, that's all."

"I can't help myself, it's very catchy."

Joan nodded and, as the song reached its peak, showed her agreement by belting out, "I NEEEEEED your loooove!" Completely off key of course.

Now it was Sherlock's turn to laugh. "You're quite fun when you're drunk."

Joan's feet stopped moving. "I am not drunk."

"Tipsy then," he nudged her, "It's fine Watson, relax. My addiction shouldn't stop you from enjoying yourself."

She did eventually relax, and let herself be guided by him. What struck her was how _easy_ it was to be with him like this, how natural his arms around her felt. She fought it. It _shouldn't_ be easy or comfortable. He was her associate. It should be awkward and polite and stiff. Just like Sherlock.

But Sherlock wasn't like that, not really. In front of her he had become comfortable and warm, in his own way. He had a long way to go, of course, but Joan never really expected him to completely conform to any expectations of how a normal man should act; she didn't really want him to.

The song finished and, as the dancers applauded the band, Joan felt the sudden urge to put as much distance between her and Sherlock as possible.

"I um, have to go to the ladies," she said before he could thank her for the dance.

Sherlock stared after her, before realising he was standing alone and still in the midst of the moving dancers. As he made his way back to their table, he found someone blocking him.

"Quite the woman isn't she," The Good Doctor himself barred Sherlock's way.

"Yes, I admire her greatly."

"You have a very close working relationship don't you? Some would say unusually so." He gazed nonchalantly out over the dancing crowd as he spoke, but Sherlock noted a distinct agitation beneath his pleasant demeanour.

"Yes, our particular line of work requires nothing less."

"Hmmm I wonder," Tom looked directly at Sherlock now, "Does she know?" he asked, head tilted.

"Does she know what?" Sherlock said, becoming impatient.

"That you're in love with her."

Sherlock scoffed. "I apologise, Dr Berkley, if I have made you feel threatened, but, I assure you, you are mistaken in your assessment. Yes, I think Watson is a remarkable woman, but our relationship is purely professional. Joan will attest to that herself if you don't believe me."

Tom nodded, "Oh I'm sure she would… but you can't fool me."

Tom walked away, finding Joan exiting the ladies and pulling her onto the dance floor. Sherlock watched her, laughing so easily; blushing under Tom's attention.

_Just as you _wanted, he said to himself. With a clenched jaw, Sherlock turned on his heel, walking out of the Armory and onto the street. He hailed a taxi to take him home, the scent of _Issey Miyake_ still clinging to him.


End file.
